


Anastomosis

by holisticannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Big C (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Cancer, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, No Cannibalism, Rare Pairings, Sick Character, Sickfic, Soulmates, Young Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holisticannibal/pseuds/holisticannibal
Summary: Anastomosis: a connection between two things that are normally diverging or branching. In another space and time, two fates become one when cancer patient Lee Fallon jumps in front of psychiatrist trainee Hannibal Lecter’s car, feigning to have been hit by it. A Rare Pair #HANNIBEAR (Hannibal Lecter/Lee Fallon) AU story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- A million thanks to my super awesome Beta @llewcie for being so patient and kind to me :D  
> \- Special thanks to dear @rainbowish-unicorn for ~~writing me a medical essay on cancer~~ educating me on cancer facts before I began writing this story  >D  
> \- All the remaining mistakes are mine ~  
> \- Double ending. An Epilogue with MCD will be posted separately when this story ends D: Cry with me XD  
> 

A thin rain is falling, even though it’s a sunny morning. 

There is a nasty, sweetish, humid smell in the air. Hannibal Lecter can detect the barest hint of decay that is distinctive during autumns. 

Minute sounds of raindrops hitting the windshield go almost too perfectly with Bach’s Goldberg Variations, which is softly playing from the car's stereo. Arriving at the location early, Hannibal’s car slowly turns into the parking lot next to Pinnie Oncology Centre. 

The hour is early, but the car park is already quite full with assorted cars. There are only a few spaces left, spaces that are so narrow that Hannibal’s Lexus would barely fit between the lines even if he parked it perfectly. 

Hannibal thins his lips; his eyes wander, searching for another empty spot. He’s about to turn another corner when, out of nowhere, a man runs in front of his car. 

A loud bang against the hood makes him hit the brake hard out of instinct, while a man crashes to the ground. 

The man doesn’t get up immediately but remains lying on the ground. 

From Hannibal’s point of view in the driver’s seat, he can only see the tip of a pair of training sneakers shaking in the air. The man seems to have no intention of getting up, and Hannibal wonders why. The doctor is absolutely sure he hasn’t knocked him down; not with such low speed. His car had barely tapped him. Perhaps the man had slipped and fallen on the wet pavement, hurting his back. 

“Are you alright?” Hannibal asks with just the appropriate amount of concern for the stranger as he gets out of the car. He remains courteous and respectful, even though he’s not particularly in a good mood.

Swiftly kneeling beside the man, Hannibal’s eyes begin assessing his body, an involuntarily habit due to his years of medicine practice. 

“Oh, it hurts!” The groaning man whines as if he’s in severe pain, his voice unnecessarily loud. 

Hannibal scans the body up and down, looking for external injuries. 

The comically twisted body is slim, too slim even for the sporty sort. He is wearing training clothes with blue long-sleeved training shirt over navy loose-fitting running pants. There is a pair of white earbuds tucked underneath his shirt so that the cord isn't exposed. The earbuds are connected to the MP3 player strapped to the man’s armband. Hannibal can hear faint, upbeat music leaking from them in the man’s ears, which is probably the reason why he is speaking so loudly. 

He is definitely not hurt, not anywhere Hannibal can see. 

“Where, Sir? Can you tell me where?” 

Gesturing vaguely with his hands, the man’s opened palms hover over the upper span of his chest. His delicate features continue to grimace exaggeratedly. He is no doubt a middle-aged individual, yet his look makes him appear rather youthful. He has a head of shortly clipped hair, and his facial hair is not particularly well-groomed but tidy enough. 

Letting out a silent displeased sigh, Hannibal’s nostrils flare, that is when his keen sense of smell catches something peculiar in the air. 

Underneath the faint musk of the man’s own scent and his sweat due to the running and the rain, there is the hint of a scent that is unpleasant but specific - The scent of cancer. 

The man is a cancer patient. 

Hannibal’s train of thought is interrupted as the man on the ground lets out a soft laugh, followed by a burst of giggles that he seems to lose control over. 

A ripple of irritation appearing and disappearing on Hannibal’s face in a flash that is almost unnoticeable. With his pale eyebrows raised, he decides to give the strange patient the satisfaction of seeing his puzzled look. He tilts his head, almost like a confused wild animal. In his mind he is categorising the man. It’s perhaps only a practical joke, but there seems to be something else behind his demeanour. 

“Why are you laughing?” 

The man manages between his breaths. “Oh! That never gets old.” 

“That was not funny.” Hannibal points out, his voice accented and his tone flat. The corner of his lips pulls down into an unamused pout. 

“That was _very_ funny. The look on your face—” The man points a crooked finger at the general direction of Hannibal’s dead serious face as a new wave of loud laughter hits. “I mean, you have to be a really bad driver to hit someone in a parking lot! Oh, that doesn't happen every day.” 

Hannibal stands as the man struggles to his feet, unsteadily but without any need for aid. He continues laughing like a mad man at a joke that apparently is very hilarious to him but only him. 

“You startled me.” Hannibal blinks. “I was worried you were hurt.”

The man shakes his head and places his hand against his ribcage as he shakes with genuine laughter. When he finally catches his breath, the man simply turns around to give Hannibal a smug but mischievous “BOO!”. 

Then he just carries on his run across the parking lot as if nothing has happened. He even waves a cheery goodbye to Hannibal as he goes. “Have a nice day!” 

Hannibal’s eyes follow the peculiar man until he disappears around the corner at the end of the short street. That’s an interesting start for the day. 

To be honest, he has never expected anything amusing to happen. 

From today onwards, Hannibal is going to begin his internship at Pinnie Oncology Centre in Minneapolis, Minnesota as a trainee, a _psychiatrist-in-training_ as he’d rather put it. 

Hannibal is always drawn to situations where people face life-threatening situations, where they are being challenged existentially. An important thing that a psychiatrist can do for cancer patients is to help them transition from feeling ‘I’m dying from cancer’ to ‘I’m living with cancer’. There is something compelling and honest about the way how cancer patients face their own mortality and grieve one another’s losses.

He’ll be under the supervision of Dr. Atticus Sherman, whose latest medical trials have had tremendous success with people in the advanced stages of cancer. Hannibal is curious about the effect of the experimental drug himself. 

Fighting cancer is like a little rebellious act against God’s will, altering patients’ destined fates, reversing the effect of entropies. He will only be required to assist with the psychological evaluations for the participants in the latest trial, but he will eventually gain access to test and scan results, a bonus advantage for his own interest.

Dr. Sherman’s latest medical trial is extremely in demand, so it has a relatively long waitlist. All the good clinical trials have long waitlists. Too many desperate cancer patients, too few spots available. 

—

The interior of the Oncology Centre is decorated with the aim to create a calming environment for cancer patients, distanced as much as possible from the sterile, cold, clinical impression of medical facilities, hiding the true nature of what the place really is. 

Everything is bathed in a neutral, earthy tone - warm wood, cream white, serene blue - The walls, the blinds, the sunlight filtered through the blinds, the seats in the waiting room…

The seats in the waiting room definitely need an upgrade. They are all covered by sturdy, uncomfortable fabric, Lee Fallon notices. He shifts in the seat uncomfortably, feeling an itch on his hipbone and thighs. There is an ache burning in every muscle due to his short run to the clinic. The burning after exercising always feels good. It distracts him from the _other_ pain that haunt him. 

The nurse has given him a pile of standard paperwork on a clipboard to read and fill in. This is not Lee’s first clinical trial. He knows the drill well enough, but he stills reads every line of small text in the document carefully with frowning concentration - Even though he doesn’t need to read the small print to know what he is signing up for. These drugs won’t cure him, but they may buy him time. Hopefully it’ll buy him enough time for him to finish his long ass To-do List. 

His Bucket List.

Flipping through the pages, a sudden wave of nausea hits him. It’s probably not the appropriate time to dwell on any of his _feelings_ right now.

_Participation Screening Questionnaire, Liability Waiver Form. In Case of Emergency Contacts. Possible Side Effects._

Lee inhales, then exhales, deep and slow. He plugs the earbuds in; a soothing song begins playing in his ears and it helps alleviate his restlessness almost instantly. 

He takes a last deep breath and gives himself a smile, before turning to Page One. 

—

A series of loud frustrated bangs followed by a single smaller bang in the corridor catch Hannibal’s attention. 

A woman is yelling, clearly in distress. “-trying just to get a God-dammed water. Fucking machine!” 

It’s not uncommon for patients to display aggressive behaviour at the clinic. The frustration is understandable. Their rudeness stems from fear and anger, rather than a character flaw, most of the time. 

Curious like a cat, Hannibal approaches the source of the noises around the corner with his usual quiet strides. Remaining unseen, he stops in his tracks, listening to the conversation between two people standing in front of a beverage vending machine. 

They are patients, no doubt. One of them is none other than the man he met earlier in the parking lot. Hannibal recognises his voice, and his scent.

“Am I sensing just a little unresolved anger?” the man from the car park says to the distressed woman.

“Why can't anything go the way it's supposed to?” The woman sobs.

“Oh, it did.” He replies. “Just didn't go the way you wanted it to. You can't control the universe. You're the water, not the rock.”

Listening to the man’s voice, Hannibal tilts his head, mildly impressed. 

“Oh, Jesus, what are you, some kind of goddamn Buddhist?”

And here comes the signature laughter. “I’ll usually leave off the ‘goddamn’ part.”

This patient is not like the others. The man has a peculiar quality that somehow intrigues Hannibal, and the doctor wants to understand why. 

—

It always feels like the first day of school when Lee turns up for a new medical trial; the fear, the hope, the process of meeting and forming bonds with new people, in this case his fellow cancer friends, nurses, doctors, psychiatrists, and cleaning staff. It’s a day packed with anxiety and excitement, as well as boredom. 

He is glad that he has his music with him. He is glad that he has his music with him because most of his time he will only be waiting. 

Waiting his turn for a nurse to check his paperwork, waiting his turn for his blood test, waiting his turn for scans, waiting his turn to be called in the doctor’s consultation room, waiting his turn to see the psychiatrist…By the time Lee reaches the queue for the psychiatrist, he’s already physically and psychologically drained. 

The clock on the wall tells him it’s not even lunch hour yet, but he already feels like he is dying. 

Wait, He **IS** dying. Lee hisses a laugh at his own joke.

Sitting alone on yet another cold, hard seat outside the psychiatrist’s office, Lee put his head back and leans against the sky blue wall behind him. He hasn’t closed his eyes entirely, for his stare is fixed on a stain in the top left corner of an uplifting, colourful paintings hanging on a wall opposite him. He lets his mind drift along with the slow music in his ears, entering a trance-like state. 

He is a meditation instructor, a professional of progressive relaxation and lucid dreaming in preparation for stressful life, and _death_. In fact, he has just applied for a short term position with the nurse in this Centre, teaching meditation classes to oncology nurses and other staff.

“Mr. Fallon?” 

Lee is so deep in his trance that he doesn’t notice the door to the consultation room opening, nor when his name is called for the third time with an increasing authoritative voice. When he finally feels fingers tapping gently on his shoulder, he jumps almost too violently.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.” A man’s voice is apologising to Lee with all sincerity, the tone deep and slightly husky. “Are you Mr. Fallon?”

Lee raises his tired eyes to look up at the person looming over him, utterly baffled to see the face belongs to none other but the man that he’s spooked earlier at the parking lot. He has a clipboard clutched in his arms, wearing a staff ID tag with the name _Dr. Hannibal Lecter_.

“I don't believe it!” Lee grins, his white teeth gleaming between his pale, thin lips. A blush slowly creeps up from his neck up to his cheek then spreads readily to the very tip of his slightly pointed ears. 

If the doctor notices the way he’s blushing like a weirdo, he gives no sign, saying with the most formal and impersonal attitude, “Are you Lee Fallon?” 

The doctor is keeping a professional facade but Lee can see it - It’s faint and barely noticeable, but it’s there - The doctor is smiling at him. Some people simply can't take a joke, especially oncology nurses and doctors who are so damn tense all the damn time. Lee is relieved to know that this Dr. Hannibal Lecter is not one of them. 

Lee nods and flashes him another happy smile; his big, stormy blue eyes brighten up with glee even as his physical strength is waning by the minute. He is exhausted.

“Awkward!” He exclaims with a loud, higher voice before unplugging his earphones. He sounds genuinely happy. “Oh, man, look who it is. My would-be assassin! This must be pretty awkward for you, right?”

“Not at all.” The older man says; a gleam of something akin to amusement seeps into his warm brown eyes.

“You’re a doctor.” Lee murmurs.

“In fact I am, although I’m in transition from medicine to psychiatry.” The doctor gives him an actual grin in return, creating handsome creases around his deep-set eyes. The warm yellow light from the low ceiling illuminates strange flecks of red in the doctor’s brown eyes. He holds the door open for Lee as he gestures him into the room. “Mr. Fallon. Please come in.”

There is a thick accent laced in the doctor’s voice that Lee can’t quite place. It sounds exotic to his ears, eastern Europe, perhaps, but it doesn’t really matter because the only thing Lee knows is that he _loves_ listening to the doctor’s voice already. He can imagine him as his therapist, which is good. 

What’s even better is that the doctor is totally his type. Lee blinks his eyes and licks his lips as he sits down. He is very aware of his own stupid, instant crush on the man before him, blushing dreamily like a schoolboy in front of his therapist. 

_Dammit, Lee._ He doesn't think he can sink any lower. But hey, who cares? It’s not like they are actually going to fall in love or something because miracles like this never happen. He’s dying; he doesn’t have time; he has all the reasons in the world to allow himself a moment to ogle over his doctor just a little bit. 

The man is tall, big, handsome, and possibly quite hairy because he can see some hair on his bare arms, very pale and very fuzzy looking…very distracting. The doctor has casually rolled up his sleeves; bulging veins appear even more prominent as he flexes his arms. He has a ridiculous bright green and gold on white paisley tie and pale grey suit pants that go quite perfectly with the mint green shirt he is wearing. He has dressed _very_ formally, but he is not wearing a white coat like the other doctors in the clinic. 

Lee has read about it. White coat syndrome. To build rapport with their patients so they can openly talk about difficult subjects like depression, suicide, fears etc., psychiatrists choose not to wear white coats. There are patients out there who get nervous when dealing with ‘authority’ figures. Some patients may have higher blood pressures when measured by the doctor at the office, but lower blood pressure everywhere else.   

High blood pressure is never a good sign in clinical trials; Lee knows it first hand based on past experiences. He shivers and swallows just to think about those awful times, but the last of a smile is still hanging tenuously on his face. 

“Call me- Um, you can call me Lee,” he says.

“Is that what you prefer to be called?” The doctor asks.

Lee gives an absent nod in answer to the doctor’s question. 

“Very well, Lee. I’m Dr. Hannibal Lecter, your psychiatrist.” Dr. Lecter smiles. “I believe you've been briefed about the psychological evaluation we are conducting throughout the course of your medical trial?”

“Yes, yes. During the orientation,” Lee says.

Dr. Lecter guides Lee to a small two-seater sofa at the far corner. The sofa looks plush and inviting, but when Lee sits on it, he finds it too stiff and low to be remotely comfortable.

With three elegant strides Dr. Lecter takes a seat on a desk chair positioned at a distance opposite his fidgeting patient. “I imagine this is not the first time you have seen a therapist?” 

“You imagine correctly.” Lee confirms. 

He is uncomfortably familiar with therapy. He is expecting his heart to pound violently in his chest just like before; not because of his silly crush on the doctor but because he is always illogically unsettled during these sessions. 

He’s never been a fan of therapy sessions. He finds it impossible to truly open himself up to a practical stranger. There are private thoughts that he’d prefer keeping to himself, complex emotions that even he himself doesn’t understand, or is simply happy to ignore because he knows well that therapy is not going to help him, or save him from his destined fate. 

He has Stage IV cancer. Nobody can save him. 

Lee, though, has learned to become eloquent in maintaining normal conversations with therapists, in lying to them with an honest face, in diverting conversations with random small talk to avoid dwelling on sensitive subjects, in hiding his true feelings with his lame jokes and dry sarcasm. 

Surprisingly, right now Lee doesn’t feel that way at all. He feels that he doesn’t want to lie to this Dr. Lecter. He feels like he can trust him, and it’s not (entirely) due to his attractive look but also because the doctor has a calm presence that works mysteriously well with his nerves. He doesn’t feel agitated; he doesn’t feel bored, just calm. 

Calm water in a quiet stream. He feels safe. 

The illusion is shattered when the doctor asks him a simple question. 

“How's your day so far?” 

“Well, um, I have a busy schedule today,” Lee laughs and looks down at his hands; his two thumbs begin beating a nervous rhythm as he drags out the last syllable with his tongue. “packed with action and _fun_.”

Lee tries hard to hide his uneasiness and anxiousness with his happy demeanour, but somehow the doctor sees through his mask almost too easily.

Dr. Lecter studies him without emotion; his face is slightly tilted. He is staring at Lee with unblinking eyes, like someone might look at an interesting scientific specimen. He is sitting with his back to the window. Light filtered through the pale blinds is casting curious shadows on his well-defined face; the contrast highlights the sharp cheekbones and deep set eyes. 

“We're simply having conversations, Lee. Try to relax for me,” Dr. Lecter says softly as he scribbles down something on a notepad balanced atop his lap. “You will be starting treatment very soon. How does it make you feel?”

“Doing this new clinical trial, you know, getting all these, um, cutting edge drugs and stuff like that, so it's really great.” Lee raises his eyebrows and his eyes avoid the doctor’s gaze. He describes his emotions like they don't even matter, just distant concepts. “Um. I feel- Nervous. Scared. Bored. Tired. Hopeful-” 

“Hopeful for a miracle?” Dr. Lecter interrupts.

“No. No. There’s no miracle. The only thing I hope for is…um…” Lee laughs, shaking his head. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth; his fingers keep playing with a frayed thread on the armrest. 

“What do you hope for, Lee?” Dr. Lecter prompts.

A look of gloom flashes over his face as he stares coldly into the doctor’s warm amber eyes and licks his lips. 

“More time.”

There is a lingering burn behind his eye sockets, and Lee blinks it away. The flash of pain and anger is gone as abruptly as it comes, promptly replaced with a practiced smile, yet perhaps it looks slightly sadder this time. 

A meticulous construct, Dr. Lecter notes, not unlike his own. He gives Lee an understanding nod.

“- Oh! And um. Hungry.” After a brief sulk, Lee adds with a quiet but lighter voice, finishing the list of feelings with his usual wit. He knows he is hungry; he can feel the hunger, it’s just that he simply has no appetite. 

Dr. Lecter smiles. Without saying another word, he stands and walks towards his desk. From one of the drawers, he pulls out a round, ceramic Tupperware. Very gently, he places the peeled-away plastic lid aside, his fingers habitually lingering and adjusting it so that its edge is positioned to touch the desk corner just right. 

Lee glances at him with glee, not saying anything although he finds the doctor’s need to align everything very funny. He frowns as the doctor hands him the Tupperware with an expectant expression. He is inviting Lee to try the food inside. 

There is a soft, mellow sweetness in the air between them. Leaning forward,  peering into the box with curiosity, Lee sees what look like chopped up chocolate granola bars rolled into perfect golden little balls. 

“What’s this?”

“Energy bites, I made them myself.” Dr. Lecter announces proudly. “Raw cacao, medjool dates, dried figs, toasted oats, almonds, walnuts, chia and flax seeds. Perfect as a healthy snack for a long day.”

Past radiation therapy has damaged Lee’s taste buds and salivary glands, causing changes to his sense of taste and smell. He picks one of the little snack balls out from the box and sniffs it cautiously.  
The smell of it is inviting, which is unexpected; usually if the food smells good to him, it will also taste good. And without surprise, it does. 

In fact, it’s surprisingly good. 

As he bites down onto the crunchy snack, he just lets his brows go dramatically up and down, his eyes closed and his expression filled with bliss that makes him look rather comical. 

“Mm, This- This is good.” Lee compliments as he pops another one into his mouth and chews. It’s not very polite to speak with a mouthful of food, but he honestly doesn’t care right now. “Mm, it's delicious. Thank you.”

Dates and figs have added a beautiful sweetness to the crunchy oats, while the raw cacao makes them so chocolate-ly. He can identify some extra spices too, perhaps it’s cinnamon, perhaps it’s not. Lee can’t be sure because he no longer trusts his dulled tongue. Anyways, he hasn’t tasted something remotely as delightful since he was diagnosed and started treatments. Maybe the taste is not actually so exceptionally good for other people, but it’s good enough for him. 

It’s like a small, small miracle. Lee knows well he will most likely just throw them up hours later, so he may just let himself enjoy the taste and the happiness it brings while he can.

“My pleasure.” Dr. Lecter says gracefully, a satisfied, small grin flitting over his lips.

Lee looks at him. He really, really likes this doctor now. 

“Can I have one more please?” 

—

Later in the afternoon session, Lee’s treatment begins almost unceremoniously. 

In a room full of patients, he is seated on an uncharacteristically comfortable chair by the window where soft sun rays after the rain are shining into the room, His arm is already hooked up to a machine standing nearby with two tubes. 

With the press of a button by the nurse, the machine starts beeping, monitoring the drip. 

“Okay, you’re all set,” the nurse says to him as she checks the setting of the machine one last time. Her attitude towards Lee is as pleasant as she can manage. 

“Thank you.” Lee beams a broad smile at her. His smile eventually ceases as his steady gaze follows the nurse who turns her back and leaves the room. 

Another blink, and his face is devoid of any happy feelings. A flash of fear washes over him as his gaze drops to his arm where the medication is flowing from a drip through a small tube into his veins. He is scared, but he manages to calm his emotions in his disciplined mind. 

No matter how many clinical trials he has put himself into during these twelve years, he can’t rid himself completely of that fear.  
He distracts himself with wondering about the other ‘cancer friends’ in the same room with him. The curtains between them have been drawn closed, giving them some privacy, which is why all Lee can see now are their legs. Some legs are much like his, relatively relaxed and out-stretched, clearly more experienced with the situation; Some legs are tense and crossed, tapping or swinging involuntarily, the new ones, obviously. One of them has restless legs and the repetitive movement is making Lee even more nervous. 

Lee clears his throat, frowns, then forces himself to look away. His long eyelashes tremble and bat a few times before he closes his eyes.  
It’s been a really long day. Again, he is grateful for still having his music (and the long battery life of his mp3 player). His earphones are on again, with G. Love’s playing loudly in his ears, masking all other noises and conversations in the room. 

He plays this song on repeat every time he’s having treatment. The swinging guitar melody always relaxes him eventually, enough to take his mind off what is happening to him, and around him. 

♫ _When did you say goodbye to heaven?_  
Leave those starry, starry skies  
When did you leave heaven  
Sweet angel of mine?  
I’m hoping and I’m praying  
Loving me won’t make you fall down from grace  
Yes I’m hoping and I’m praying  
That the good lord don’t take you away  
At least not today ♫

His mind wanders, escaping the cruel reality. 

—

By the time Hannibal Lecter steps out of the clinic, it’s already getting dark, and he is desperately craving a glass of wine.  
He’s about to exit the carpark when the same patient jumps in front of his car, tapping on his hood playfully.

_Lee Fallon._ Hannibal remembers his name, an interesting man.

“Just making sure you can see me, all right?” Lee says to him, his loud voice slightly muffled by the window shield. He points two fingers to his eyes and then aims them at Hannibal. ”Keep your eyes on the road, okay?” 

Then he turns to jog his way home.

This Lee Fallon is a special man, a complicated soul lingering between rage and serenity. Hannibal watches him go and gives him a sidelong look with the faintest hint of amusement seeping through his stony façade. 

…

When the doctor’s car drives past his jogging patient into the orange sunset, Lee watches him go with longing eyes. He is feeling that complex thing that he tries so damn hard to avoid. 

Why couldn’t he have met a man like him earlier? Why couldn’t he have met a man like him before the term ‘Stage I’ came into his life? 

Lee shakes his head, tries hard to steady his breath as his legs move in sync with the beat of the slow swinging music in his ears.

♫ _When did you run on down from heaven?_  
How’d they ever let you go?  
Why did you leave heaven for this earthly home?  
Spread your wings and fly on home to me  
Spread your wings cuz something was meant to be  
Most definitely  
You and me ♫

…


	2. Chapter 2

Approximately two weeks later in the Pinnie Oncology Centre, a group of nurses are busy turning a makeshift classroom back to its former state as a Children’s activity room.

Lee spots the familiar back of the handsome doctor who is his therapist in the corridor. 

“Hey! Hey! Dr. Lecter!” Lee makes himself maintain an appropriate pace when he approaches the doctor, not too enthusiastic, not too _obvious_. “Hey, wait up. Do I have to walk in front of your car again to get your attention?”

He can hear how dumb it sounds the moment it's out of his mouth, and he wants to slap himself on the head. He’s embarrassing himself again; it’s ridiculous. 

Remain detached, no ties, and definitely no flirting, Lee reminds himself internally. 

No chance he’d know that as a matter of fact, the doctor had smelled him long before he calls his name. He quickly reviews Lee’s schedule in his mind. It’s not a day Lee should be in the clinic for treatment. His curiosity is piqued.

The doctor turns around, his expression mostly blank but mildly amused. He jokes with all seriousness, “If you want to find out, I'm going to my car now.” 

Lee laughs like he is going to die over it. Dr. Lecter tilts his head and asks lightly, “Didn't think I'd see you today.”

A bony thumb gestures at the door left ajar behind him. “I was just teaching a meditation class to the oncology nurses. They are a tense bunch. It wore me out.”

Dr. Lecter nods. Lee watches his lips pulling into a gentle smile, momentarily mesmerised, and before he can stop himself again he blurts out, “You want to get lunch? I'm starving. You're buying!”

_Shit. Did I just ask him out on a lunch date?_

The nervous grin on Lee’s face freezes but the hope in him remains. He stares wide-eyed at the taller man’s face, his head can’t stop nodding like an idiot as Dr, Lecter raises his pale eyebrows in response. 

Then Dr. Lecter gives him a smile, a genuine smile that is borderline smug and playful. It makes Lee all flustered and speechless. 

“How very generous of me.” The doctor says, not without humour, “Hmm. No, I think I'll pass.”

**Rejected.**

“Ah-ha—okay. Awkward…” Lee whispers under his breath, his high pitch panic barely audible. 

But then, Dr. Lecter continues, “I’m very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself. As a matter of fact, I’m heading home for lunch. Would you like to join me?”

It’s just a lunch, it doesn’t mean anything…right? 

“Okay.” Lee doesn't know what to say, so he just nods again. “Well then, you lead the way, _Doctor_.” 

Together they step out into the warm sun. It’s a bright day today.  
“Please, call me Hannibal. We're not at the clinic anymore.” 

—

There is a reason Lee carries his music around with him everywhere he goes. He is not used to dead silence; it reminds him of how lonely he really is. 

When the engine of the doctor’s car starts, soft piano music begins playing from the car stereo, and Lee’s body visibly relax. He is relived that the drive is not going to be plagued by nervous tension and awkward silence. 

There is something special about the doctor; he’s such a _serene_ presence. Elegant, graceful, almost cat-like. Lee feels a sense of absolute calm just by sitting next to him. 

He steals a glance at Dr. Lecter…Hannibal while he is concentrating on the road. They drive past a row of trees, and the doctor’s hair seems to be changing colour under the moving patches of sunlight and shadows. It’s a messy combination of blonde, golden brown, and deep brown together with some strands of silver woven into the mix. He cannot pinpoint what colour his hair is but he simply cannot take his eyes off the man. 

Hannibal is an attractive man. He is courteous. He is charming. He has great taste and style, judging by the tailored suits he wears to work. He is popular around people, especially women- Lee saw him the other day surrounded by a group of nurses while he called out their perfumes: a neat parlour trick, really. 

The point is, Lee has been paying attention, but still, so far he can’t really tell if he is…gay…or not. Lee can’t tell what he is, which is strange because he always _knows_ … Not that it matters if the doctor is gay or not; people can defy categorisation and labelling means nothing. Lee only needs to know if he has a chance. 

He is not going to actually date his doctor, certainly not because it may be morally questionable but rather that he knows there will be no future for them, for their relationship. Even though he longs for someone by his side, a relationship is definitely not something he needs. He is dying. It won’t end well. He can’t do that to himself. And he can't do that to someone he loves…but then, he isn’t opposed to the idea of having sex with this gorgeous man. 

He has long convinced himself that sex with strangers at bars is enough for him; no ties, no emotional involvement, but deep down, he still hopes that he can meet that someone who can change his mind before his time comes. He actively avoid all kinds of connections, but secretly he craves and longs for the possibility of not being alone. He’s just conflicted like that. 

While Lee’s mind contemplates the probability of Hannibal being gay and him getting laid, the doctor himself is wondering about something else. 

He is thinking about food, his mind busy recalling what have been stocked in his pantry and fridge, planning out what to do with them so he can prepare a proper meal for Lee without upsetting his stomach. 

He has read Lee’s file. It’s only about two weeks in since the trial started, but Lee definitely should be more careful about his weight loss. A decrease in weight over time may affect the patient's ability to function, making them weak and unable to perform daily activities. 

"I apologise for being so blunt, Lee, but I have to ask.” Hannibal speaks out of the blue, breaking the silence. 

Lee jumps, straightens himself in his seat like a student getting picked by a teacher. _Has he notice his obvious ogling or…?_

“Is it true that you're a buddhist? Am I assuming correctly that you don't eat meat?”

Oh. So Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind his obvious ogling. Lee laughs nervously. 

“I used to be a vegetarian until one of my meds made me really anemic, and I started eating fish, which turned out to be a gateway meat to chicken, steak, veal- you get the picture.” 

Hannibal grins. “Good. It's rare that I cook a meatless meal. That'll save me some trouble.” 

—

Intimidated.

Intimidated is the word Lee chooses when he stands before the door to Hannibal’s luxurious apartment in downtown Minneapolis. Same as Lee’s place, it’s a sublet for while he is here for Dr. Sherman's trial. It’s temporary, not permanent, Hannibal tells him, but still. 

“I typically don't go into strange guys' apartments.” Lee jokes as he crosses the threshold, immediately surprised by its simple yet sophisticated decoration.

“Just ignore the dead bodies.” Hannibal replies in all seriousness.

Lee giggles, and steps out of his well-worn sneakers; as if by habit, he places them neatly next to the door, and Hannibal eyes him with appreciation. He doesn't wait for an introduction; instead he begins walking slowly around the flat as if he is in a museum, admiring and touching everything with two curious fingers. 

The apartment is very bright and well-lit by sunlight from outside the window, meticulously tidy and clean, not a speck of dust present, much like Hannibal’s small office. It has a two-bedroom plan, about double the size of Lee’s place, not overly huge but spacious enough for a single man. 

The doctor seems to have an immense appreciation for classical order and strange beauty. There are weird sculptures and classic paintings tastefully arranged on walls and cabinets, including a taxidermy stag head on the largest wall above a cozy looking fireplace. Every detail looks expensive and elegant, borderline vulgar but not quite. He’ll describe this style as Hannibal-sque, Lee comments and laughs in his mind. 

A large portion of the flat is dedicated to the combination kitchen and dining area. The kitchen has barn wood on appliance walls, contrasting with the stainless appliances, all looking positively professional. The zebra wood on the cabinet wall is masculine and elegant, definitely European. The island in the centre is stainless with pale grey leather panels on the front and sides. The kitchen honestly looks as professional as Lee’s own wine bar back home. 

With Hannibal nodding his approval, Lee opens the door to the main bedroom. Just like the living area, his bedroom is elegantly decorated with the same level of charm and simplicity and subtle sophistication. The colour scheme is in the most serene shade of cerulean blue, dark silvery grey and ivory white instead of the burgundy red used in the living area. The giant bed in the centre of the room looks outrageously soft and inviting. Lee has an urge to touch the silky bedcover and white cotton sheet without Hannibal’s noticing, but he shakes it off because it’ll be unforgivably creepy and rude. 

He distracts himself with exploring the other, smaller bedroom. Lee opens the door and sneaks into the room. It has been converted to a dashing walk-in closet. The space has built-in shelving to give every tie, blazer and wingtip a stylish place to call home. Lee looks at the colour-coded dress shirts and he chuckles. Dr. Lecter definitely has a predilection for tidiness and order. 

Lee lets his fingers brush along the row of soft fabric of the checkered suit jackets, and a bizarre jealousy fills his chest, making him suffocate. 

Hannibal’s place is full of life, personality, proof of existence, unlike Lee’s place that is completely void of all of that. There is nothing extra in Lee’s barren apartment; all he possesses in there are essentials for basic living - except his large collection of sneakers and stacking crates of wine. They may look excessive but definitely are essentials to suit Lee’s way of life. Lee always jokes that he is living almost like a monk: a drunk monk. 

“Your place is like the opposite of mine.” Lee comments absently when he closes the doors to the bedrooms and sneaks back out to the kitchen area. 

While Lee is wandering around his apartment, Hannibal has started preparation for lunch. The older man pauses his rapid chopping and looks up at Lee who looks slightly worn out.

“Is that so?” 

“You call this place temporary?” Lee says with disbelief. 

“Yes.” 

“If this is your definition of temporary, what would your permanent home be like?“ 

Lee probably wouldn’t have a chance to find out. 

Hannibal just gives him a shrug. 

Lee explains, “I have already got rid of most of my stuff. You know, I've learned how to…detach from people and- and things and expectations, and letting all of that go just makes me feel…Unburdened. It's just how I like to live. And it's how I want to die-Traveling light, no ties, nothing holding me back. I could go right now.“

Hannibal stares at Lee, his eyes unblinking like a cat, and he says nothing. 

Lee is about to sit down on a weird looking bottle green armchair with deer hooves when he spots something of interest that attracts him like a magnet. 

“Oh. OH!”

Next to the tiny-but-tidy pantry is Hannibal’s wine rack. 

The wine rack occupies an entire small wall, well stocked with reds and whites of all sorts. Lee lets his fingers linger on the bottle necks until he discovers some interesting ones. He picks them all out one by one, gently and professionally and with utmost care. He squints his eyes while examining the labels. 

Most of them are good stuff.

_Expensive_ stuff. 

_Very expensive_ stuff.

_Jesus fucking Christ._ Lee beams ecstatically as if he is in wine heaven. “Wow.” 

“Do you appreciate wine?” Hannibal asks. He comes to stand beside Lee, curious about what the man is looking at. 

“Love my wine.“ Lee answers, then adds quickly, “Not in a wino way.”

Hannibal nods. “You drink it for the antioxidants.” 

Lee nods then shakes his head. “I own a wine bar back home in New Orleans, have for ten years.” 

“That's an attachment.” Hannibal points out.

Lee looks up from the bottle in his hand and shakes his head. 

“Huh? No, not at all. Look, the second I die, the manager takes over. I did the paperwork for that years ago.” He grins. “And in the meantime, the owner's glass is always full.”

Because of the terminal status of his cancer, Lee has systematically worked to remove all personal connections from his life. 

Hannibal says nothing but gives him an understanding glance, before he resumes his aggressive chopping. After a long pause, he says, “I've been unspeakably rude. I haven't offered you a drink.”

“Oh. Don’t worry. I’ll help myself.” The smaller man’s eyes narrow with glee as his hand immediately reaches for one of the less expensive bottles on the rack. “Wait. Oh. okay. Now this- this is a great shiraz.” 

He holds up the bottle, then looks at Hannibal expectantly like a puppy. “May I?”

“Of course.” Hannibal’s smile is indulgent. “The bottle opener is in the first drawer to the left.”

…

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is certainly full of surprises. It turns out he is not only very skilled in chopping things, but also is super talented in cooking the said chopped things. 

After a short wait - Lee only manages to finish his second glass - Food is ready. Hannibal seats him at the chair next to the head of the ridiculously long dining table, his place already meticulously set with polished silverware. Lee traces his fingers on the smooth oak surface of the table absently, but immediately retracts his hand like a kid as a fine china plate is placed in front of him.

Lee gasps when he sees the steaming food on his plate. It’s an appropriately small portion of delicate stir-fry that is packed with colours. Boneless marinated strips of sirloin steak, red onion, tomato, green pepper, fried potato, all perfectly diced and sliced, artistically arranged and served on a bed of steaming brown rice. The carrot slaw on the side is stabbed with three black and white thin porcupine quills that Lee is quite sure are not edible. 

After a long admiration of the meticulous plating, Lee can’t help but laugh. He picks the porcupine quills out with careful fingers. He frowns as he examines the strange thing, feeling the texture of it with the pad of his fingers.

“I’ve never seen an actual porcupine. Are these real?” 

“Yes.” Hannibal answers with a suppressed smile as he helps himself to a larger serving of the same dish Lee is having. Refilling both of their wine glasses, he sits himself down at the head of the table. 

The food smells good, like garlic and ginger and a mix of spices and herbs that Lee cannot identify. He feels an unusual appetite, which is not always the case. Sometimes, merely the smell of food makes Lee feel nauseous, but fortunately for him, he doesn’t feel anything unpleasant…yet. 

To be honest, Lee has been worrying about the possibility of such a scenario the entire time. What if he can’t eat a single bite of what Hannibal has cooked for him? Would he be a horrible guest if he skipped it? How can he politely refuse a dish after his doctor spending so much effort in preparing it? 

Hannibal makes the cooking looks easy and effortless, but Lee knows it’s not that simple. Would it be more rude if he eats it anyway and then vomits it all out within five minutes? It’ll be terribly embarrassing. He’s experienced similar embarrassment first hand and knows well how awkward eating with company can get.

Lee forks a piece of meat from the plate; he sniffs it again just in case. 

Hannibal chuckles. “I didn't poison you, Lee. I wouldn't do that to the food.”

“What is this?” Lee asks.

“Lomo Saltado. A traditional Peruvian dish that combines marinated strips of sirloin with onions, tomatoes, and french fries, typically served with rice. The dish originated as part of the chifa tradition, the Chinese cuisine of Peru, though its popularity has made it part of the mainstream culture.” Hannibal explains unnecessarily in length.

The doctor is a food nerd, another important fact about the man. Lee gives him an eye-roll and a knowing smirk. He put the food into his mouth. His dulled tongue can actually taste flavours, which is so rare. He feels a burning behind his eyes as though he might cry.   
He misses eating food: _real_ food. 

He says quietly, “Hmm- This is, this is really good. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Doctor… Hannibal.” 

“You’re very welcome, Lee.” Hannibal’s voice sounds almost warm and caring.

It’s not customary for Hannibal Lecter to care: to show compassion, empathy, or to relate these feelings to anyone - even though he is equipped with the gift to feel everything in the world much more potently than other human beings. It’s inconvenient for him to show compassion, in particular when the compassion is evolving itself into, disturbingly, a craving. A craving for companionship. Friendship is such a foreign concept for Hannibal, and same for love. Or companionship. 

He knows well he has the tendency to turn his curiosity for his patients into something different. An obsession. 

An obsession that has the potential to evolve into something more akin to love. Love is something that cannot be controlled, and Hannibal is not accustomed to not being in control. He also unfortunately has an unhealthy obsession with being in control of everything aspect in life, which is why things that he can’t control always puzzle but excite him at the same time. 

The odd occurrence of the beautiful man called Lee Fallon is certainly something intriguing for Hannibal. Much like their first encounter, it’s never Hannibal’s intention for them to meet. Unplanned, unintentional, chance encounters. Lee just crashes into Hannibal’s life like a meteorite, destroying the balance. 

A meteorite is short-lived and unpredictable streak of light produced by a piece of space dust. You only have a narrow time frame to make your wish before it vanishes.


	3. Chapter 3

Loud music from the bar outside fades to a muffled thud. The dim, red glow from a bulb above flickers as a giant moth flies by in the darkened corridor. 

Air rushes out from Lee’s lungs like a sensual sigh. His dilated pupils contract as he turns his face up towards the red and blue neon light from above. His thin body is pressed firmly against the cold wall by a large palm while his cock is being sucked by a large man kneeling on the floor before him. 

With one hand he tries to steady himself by hanging onto the hairy arm that is pinning him in place; his other hand reaches down and clenches his fist in the man's dark hair, not quite yanking at it but urging him on because he is close. So close. 

The man elicits a wicked laugh, and Lee feels the man’s tongue swirling over the aching head of his cock with increasing pace and force, swirling, flicking, stroking. His cheeks hollow, sucking harder as his head bobs back and forth even faster. Lee holds his breath until his lungs begins to burn. His vision greys out at the edges.

“Argh.” 

An urgent moan verging on a yelp escapes Lee’s lips as orgasm shoots through him in great, wracking spams, the pleasure sharp and hot, making his head spin. 

Cracking open his eyes, Lee looks down at the man under the eerie red and blue neon light. Instead of the attractive face of the Asian guy he is fucking, Lee is startled and terrified to see Dr. Lecter staring back up at him with his god-dammed red eyes and handsome smirk. 

It’s just a flash of hallucination, but it’s unsettling enough. 

Realising how wrong it is, Lee groans softly, if not internally. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting to catch his breath, his mind blissfully goes blank as the man before him stands to give him a quick kiss. Lee can taste himself on his tongue.

The guy leaves his number on a napkin for Lee. Lee bids him good night, then throws the napkin into a recycle bin while he’s not looking.

—

Stopping by the clinic for a quick check up, Lee obediently offers his right arm to the nurse for the blood pressure cuff. A clip board is carefully balanced on his lap, swaying a little as the man awkwardly tries to use his left hand to fill in yet another questionnaire.   
He murmurs as if he’s talking to himself while reading through the questions. 

“Shortness of breath? - No.” 

“Muscle cramping? - Not more than usual.”

“Night sweats? - Nope.”

“Rash, particularly around the back, neck, or buttocks? - …Nope, no butt rash.”

“Flaking off or complete loss of finger or toenails? - Ew. Nope.” 

Lee bites his lower lip as he turns to the nurse and asks in a more serious manner, “Um, so I have no side effects from the drugs. Does it mean that my body's resisting the drugs? If my nails aren't falling out, then it's not eating my cancer?”

“Hmm…Huh.” The nurse, ignoring his question, utters an unsettling sound from her throat.

“What is it? _Huh_?” Lee laughs nervously. “Care to elaborate on that? Is that medical jargon for ‘great,’ or is that as scary as it sounds?” 

The nurse looks at him, not exactly in a good mood because she’s very tired. “Your blood pressure is high. It's been climbing your last two visits. Dr. Sherman will take a look. He might want to put you on some blood pressure medication. You can talk to Dr. Sherman about it next week. In the meantime, try to relax.”

“I’m relaxed; I always am. But thank you.” Lee keeps murmuring as he walks out from the exam room, but not without a smile. 

He is still smiling when he runs straight into someone who is turning the corner. A pair of steady hands reaches out immediately to steady him in reflex. It feels familiar…Lee looks up, the man before him is none other than his psychiatrist and crush Dr. Lecter. 

“Hello, Mr. Fallon.” Hannibal says. “Rare for patients to have a look on their face like that when they come out of an exam room.”

“Ahh, hiya. That Filipino nurse always cracks me up.” Lee jokes, but his body is very tense. 

Hannibal can feel the tension seeping through the fabric under his fingers, he studies Lee hard, his concerned eyes narrowed into slits. 

“Something wrong?”

The perfectly happy illusion on Lee’s face crumbles into a not-so-happy and worried pout. He licks his lips before he confesses, “My blood pressure's too high. They might have to put me on meds.”

Same as weight loss, high blood pressure is never a good sign of anything during clinical trial. Hannibal nods his understanding. 

“No, don't let them put you on blood pressure medication. I can get that down for you. Let me take you to a friend of mine, Lee. She’s a very skilled acupuncturist specialises in cancer patients. You can trust her.”

Lee eyes him skeptically. “You really think acupuncture can help?”  
“Yes.” 

There is confidence in Hannibal’s voice, and Lee trusts him.

…

It’s almost lunch break, so Hannibal insists accompanying and driving Lee to the acupuncturist himself.

A soothing, woody scent of burning incense fills the air, it’s similar to the one Lee uses during meditation sessions. The scent calms Lee’s nerve slightly, but it doesn’t make his first acupuncture session any less stressful or unsettling. 

When the needle is inserted to the centre of his forehead, Lee can’t help but flinch. His whole body jumps, and the motion alerts the therapist. 

The therapist is a very pleasant girl with a kind face, her flowing red hair tied into a neat ponytail. She asks Lee calmly, “Does that hurt?” 

Lee gives her a grin that looks like a grimace. “No, sorry. It's just a reflex. I'm not used to having sharp objects pierced into my face.”

The therapist smiles and explains, “Just relax. Let your ‘chi’ get its groove on. ‘Chi’ is your vital energy. The needles unblock it, help it flow.” 

Another needle, another flinch. 

“Right, right.” Lee doesn’t notice he is holding his breath until Hannibal’s face comically appears from the crack between two blue curtains hanging at the door.

Lee hisses a laugh, then grimaces again at the weird sensation of having needles sticking all over his forehead.

“Hello.” Hannibal nods to the therapist, who in turn gives him a friendly smirk. “Just checking on the patient. Am I interrupting a deep moment?”

“Mmm. Well, I'm not floating yet.” Lee’s eyes tries to give him a glare while stiffly turning his face towards his doctor, he must looks funny as hell because there is a subtle smug expression in Hannibal’s eyes.

“It’s quite alright, give it time. You’ll feel an amazing sense of calm afterwards.”

The therapist takes Lee’s pale wrist, feeling for his pulse with the pads of her fingers.

Lee pouts. This is different from meditating because… _Hello? Needles_. “I don't feel anything.” 

“Oh. Your pulse slowed down when your boyfriend came in the room.” The therapist jokes, giving Hannibal a knowing stare that is not visible from Lee’s position. 

“Good.” Hannibal replies, his eyes openly amused now.

“We're not -” Lee turns his head towards Hannibal, a faint blush appears on his face. _Wait, he is not denying it._

“Well, regardless, there is something special going on between you two. There's a medical term for it.” The therapist exchanges a look with Hannibal, then continues, “ ** _Anastomosis._** It's when two streams that previously branched out, like blood vessels, reconnect. Or in your case, two people. Sometimes, one person can actually affect the other's breathing or heart rate. Symbiosis. **Soulmates.** ”

“Hmm. We're definitely not soulmates. We hardly know each other.” Lee laughs; his heart, however, begins pounding faster. 

Nope. The doctor is definitely NOT soulmate material, Lee tells himself repeatedly in his head.

“Well, your pulse begs to differ.” The therapist laughs. She stands to leave the room. “Uh, rest here while I mix up some herbs for you to make a tea with at home.”

…

The problem is, it turns out Lee doesn’t have a pot large enough for him to make herbal medicine with, so Hannibal volunteers to make it for him at his own place. 

A strong pungent smell soon fills the air of the graceful apartment of Hannibal’s; it’s earthy, herbal, bitter, unpleasant. Inelegant. Lee feels bad for ruining the place, but Hannibal, who seems to have a sensitive nose, doesn't appear to be bothered by it at all. 

The older man stands in front of the stove, occasionally stirring the herbs being boiled in the red enamelled cast iron pot with a wooden spoon. He observed the colour and consistency of the medicine with interest, then comments, “It needs to boil down some more.” 

“God, it smells horrible. I hope it tastes better than it smells.” Lee groans as he peeks into the pot of bubbling dark brown liquid with a grimace even though he knows this horrible tea is good for his high blood pressure.

“Unfortunately for you, no, not really.” 

“Well, things could be worse than making stinky tea with my _soulmate_. You’re my _Bestie_ now, I guess.” Lee laughs as he bumps shoulders with Hannibal as if they are besties at school. 

Hannibal has no idea how to react at all so he just freezes. 

After an awkward pause, Lee asks him in an oddly serious manner, “Um, Hannibal. Do you believe in soulmates?”

_Soulmates_ , how intriguing, but ridiculous, Hannibal finds the concept amusing and foolish at the same time, but he is willing to explore the idea further, given a chance. 

“I think soulmates are different from life partners, and that you can have special connections with a number of people that you can't explain. It’s a different connection from all those we have known before. There are no words or explanations that can clearly express such a connection.” Hannibal comments neutrally. “How about you? What do you believe in?” 

Lee looks away for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into words. “I think - A soulmate makes you vibrate whether they are next door or thousands of miles away. You need them, their contact, support; they bring out the best of yourself. Paulo Coelho once wrote that- that really important meetings are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other. Generally speaking, these meetings occur when we reach a limit, when we need to die and be reborn emotionally. These meetings are waiting for us, but more often than not, we avoid them happening. If we are desperate, though, if we have nothing to lose, or if we are full of enthusiasm for life, then the unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes direction.”

A proud grin appears on Lee’s face when he realises how stoic and puzzled the older man’s face is, his mind apparently busy trying to make some sense of what he's just heard, contemplating the depth and weight in the simple word ‘soulmate’. 

—

Another day, another therapy session. Lee is almost gleeful as he enters the doctor’s office.

Lee laughs as he spots the latest addition to Hannibal’s office - A mini fridge sitting quietly at the corner. 

“You know, you’re probably the first psychiatrist I know who owns a mini fridge in the office. You can put beer in it and nobody would know. Sneaky!” 

“Indeed. Unfortunately, I’m not particularly fond of beer.” 

“How about those mini wines, then.”

“That has crossed my mind.” Hannibal chuckles softly as he hands Lee a thermos coffee carafe that he has prepared for him on his desk.

It’s become a ritual, a habit, for the doctor and patient to share a cup of black coffee before beginning their therapy session. 

Unlike other patients/ therapists, their therapy sessions feel more like intellectual conversations, with Hannibal and Lee exchanging dialogue back and forth, like tennis matches between two minds that the players deeply enjoy. 

The charcoal black thermos carafe has white melamine cups incorporated in its clever design to serve as the cap. Lee flips over one of them, and pours out the content into the cup. 

Lee looks down into the cup, and his eyebrows raise dramatically in surprise and confusion. Instead of the usual steaming aromatic homebrew black coffee, Hannibal has brought him a chilled beverage that has a curious pink hue.

“What is it? A milkshake? Smoothie?” Lee dips his pinky fingertip into the cup like a curious child then sucks it into his mouth, earning a disapproving stare from Hannibal. “Hmmm. Nice. It’s sweet.”

Hannibal nods. “A protein shake to promote weight gain and help build your muscle, increasing physical activity levels. It can provide high amounts of protein, minerals, and vitamins in one serving. I’ve added red fruits to give it a more pleasant taste.”

“Hmm- Thank you. Do you give it to all your patients?” Lee asks as he takes a large gulp from the cup and swooshes the thick drink around in his mouth.

“No. Only you.” Hannibal answers casually. It’s a kind gesture that is exclusively reserved for a man whom he cares about. “One could definitely accuse me of favouritism.”

“Aww. I am your favourite!” Lee grins and clutches his heart jokingly. 

Hannibal looks at him, his eyes narrowed in amusement. “Yes, you are.”


	4. Chapter 4

Almost like there is an invisible thread of destiny pulling them together, Hannibal always finds Lee (or vice versa), in the most unlikely place with the most unlikely timing. Which is why the doctor no longer feels the thrill of surprise when Lee once again crosses his path. 

If he feels anything, it’s a rare warmth that spreads in his chest. A feeling that is disgustingly refreshing, and addictive. 

It’s getting dark when Hannibal begins driving home from his weekly grocery shopping. His car is turning the corner when he spots a familiar man walking out from a pawn shop across the street near Washington. 

The neighbourhood is largely quiet, and Lee is walking alone down the street that is lined with depressing shop fronts. His expression is blank, a little grumpy even, his demeanour very different from the cheerful side him Hannibal is familiar with when he’s loitering around the clinic. 

Lee is keeping his hands in his pockets, his steps urgent, almost a small jog. His small frame appears much thinner underneath the slightly oversized grey flannel coat. He has his earphones and loud music on, again, which is why he can’t hear Hannibal calling his name, _again_.

Unbelievable. Hannibal sighs and shakes his head. He is considering if he should pull over or just drive away, when a young man approaches Lee near the entrance of a barren parking lot. 

Hannibal’s predatory instinct alerts him of the potential ill intention. 

_“GIVE ME YOUR MONEY. COME ON! NOW! OR YOU WANT TO FUCKIN' DIE? HUH? YOU WANT TO DIE?”_

From Hannibal’s angle, he can clearly see the young man yelling at Lee with his fingers simulating a handgun inside his jacket pocket - or that he really has a gun with him. Hannibal pushes open the door of his car, stepping out silently. His mind plotting what he should do in order to save Lee from harm. 

_“STOP LAUGHING! I’M FUCKIN' SERIOUS!”_

To his surprise, Lee begins laughing hysterically as if the underaged robber has made a terrible joke. The young man is clearly baffled, scared even, by Lee’s weird reaction. He looks at him like he’s a lunatic and decides to flee the scene. He curses loudly without looking back.

Watching the drama, Hannibal furrows his pale brow, his tongue slightly peeking from between his tightly pulled lips with disapproval. 

Lee is miraculously still laughing when Hannibal’s car stops right beside him. He greets Hannibal with his knuckles knocking yet another upbeat tune on the car window.

“Hey. You gonna hit me with your car again, Doc?” Lee says, looking very pleased to see his doctor.

Hannibal rolls down the window. “Are you going home now?” 

Seeing Hannibal’s displeased expression, Lee nods unsurely.

The doctor orders. “I’m taking you home. Get in the car, Lee.” 

In the warmth of the car, Lee explains to Hannibal the reason why he’s been out there. His hand flips a small roll of cash over and over between his fingers. There is this an old lady who has trouble walking in Lee’s trial group who needed some urgent cash. She decided to pawn a few watches and some jewellery at the pawn shop on Washington. Lee thinks the neighbourhood is not safe enough for her to go alone, so he volunteered to help her out with it. 

“- I told her, _’I ran past that place the other day, and trust me, running is the way you should pass it’_. And see? I wasn’t lying!” Lee says and pockets the cash with a shake of his head. “Jesus. I should have brought my rape whistle.”

Lee giggles, and Hannibal gives him a highly unamused glare. 

“Lee, he could have had a real gun.” The doctor points out gravely.

“Yeah, he could have.” Lee agrees, not even remotely sorry for his complete lack of self preservation. After a pause, he says, “You know, when he asked if I want to die, I lost it. If you had any sense of the irony… I'm dying, ready to go. I’m already Stage IV. I mean, I wouldn't rush it any more.”

This peculiar man. 

A faint half-grin appears on Hannibal’s lip as he shakes his head while his eyes remain fixed on the road ahead.

It’s a short drive to Lee’s apartment, but when they arrive at the location. Lee has already fallen asleep. 

He’s snoring lightly with his head leaning against the car window. 

Hannibal observes his peaceful but pale face. Hannibal knows his body is not reacting well with the treatment; he can smell it on Lee. The man is clearly weakened and exhausted; he just doesn’t want to show it. 

What a stubborn boy. A sweet sadness and adoration overwhelms the doctor’s heart. It’s unpleasant to acknowledge how much he cares for this patient of his… 

No, Lee is not his patient. Lee is his friend. 

—

Lee is his friend. So it’s perfectly courteous to say yes when Lee invites him up to his apartment for a ‘thank-you drink’.   
The heavy metal door is opened with a loud click. Hannibal steps in, slightly baffled to see how barren Lee’s open plan studio apartment really is. 

“You do travel light.” Hannibal muses. He surveys the rather empty apartment that is devoid of proper furnitures and home appliances.

It’s about half the size of Hannibal’s own; one third of it is the kitchen, and two third of it is the living room and bedroom. The high ceiling gives the space an airy feel even though it’s a small space. The walls are painted white and pale grey, going harmoniously along with the dull grey paved floor. 

The kitchen is relatively clean, lacking evidence of heavy use except utensils for boiling and steaming. Hannibal puts down his leather briefcase together with two full bags of groceries on the counter. 

Swiftly, he sorts out the ones that requires refrigeration and put them into the fridge. Similar to the state of his apartment, Lee’s fridge is largely empty, stocked only with a carton of milk, a few apples and eggs. 

Hannibal clicks his tongue in disapproval. 

“Told you.” Lee laughs as he sees Hannibal shakes his head. 

He tries to keep his balance as he bends and unlaces his boots, slowing a little to shuck one, then the other, and returns them to a long line of shoes along the wall beside the door.

The entire of Lee’s place has been emptied out to contain only a few elements. There is no other furniture aside from a single chair standing next to the door, a coat stand, a small bookshelf, and a queen size mattress placed on the floor against the widest wall. A stack of wine crates next to the bed have been stocked almost full. 

A faint but pleasant scent of sandalwood lingering in the air catches Hannibal’s attention. The scent is rising from an incense burning on a low table in front of the windows. It’s like a little shrine with candles, framed pictures of Buddhist monks and small Buddha statues. 

The soft throw rug underneath it is of a neutral tone, cozy, comfortable, a dedicated space for Lee to retreat and practise meditation. 

Everything in the room is tidy, in perfect order, the aesthetics not entirely unpleasant to Hannibal’s eyes. Although quite bare, there is a serene, zen-like quality to it that Hannibal can appreciate. 

Hannibal walks towards the tall potted plant standing in the corner next to the window where gentle sunlight is filtered through bamboo blinds. He feels the thick, lush green leaves under the touch of his fingers. The plant has been well-taken care of. 

“What do you do in here all day?” Hannibal prompts.

“I meditate. One hour in the a.M., one hour in the p.M., and, uh…Drink- p.M.” Lee grins, his hand swiftly opening a bottle he picks from the rack. Without needing much attention, he pours out the content into a decanter, allowing the wine to air a bit. 

With Lee’s shrug of approval, Hannibal opens the door to a mini closet slash wardrobe sunken in the wall. There are only a few shirts and jackets hanging in there and nothing else.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. “Where does a Buddhist keep all of his clothes?”

Lee snorts, fetching an extra glass from the kitchen cabinet. “Those are all my clothes. Well. I can't take ’em with me!”

A flicker of an unknown emotion flashes in Hannibal’s eyes. His pale eyelashes bat, before slowly and carefully closing the wooden door of the closet slash wardrobe. 

The doctor then gestures at the long line of training sneakers against the wall next to the door. Lee seems to be very passionate about running, Hannibal observes.

“You have more sneakers than shirts.” 

“I run marathons.” Lee explains. “I started, uh, twelve years ago when I was first diagnosed…Back at Stage I. I've run them in every city I was in for treatment. Now that I've ended up in Darrow, I’m training for the Minneapolis New Year's Eve marathon.”

“Knocking yourself out to cross a finish line seems like the opposite of Buddhism to me.“ Hannibal comments. 

“Well, it's not about getting somewhere. It's about, um... Being somewhere.” Lee watches Hannibal tilt his head. It’s distracting, that expression. He licks his lips and pauses to contemplate his thoughts, before beginning again, “It's like you get to the point in a marathon where it seems like everything stops, like you're not moving at all.”

Running marathons is not a sport Hannibal has considered practising himself, but he understands the appeal, and the reason why Lee is so obsessed with it. 

“You're like a cat that way. Rubbing up against things, but never needing anybody.” 

“Well, I wouldn't mind being reincarnated as one of those hairless cats, you know, where you can almost see their hearts beat beneath the skin?” Lee hisses a laugh when Hannibal shrugs, indicating his largely indifferent attitude towards the feline species.

Lee imagines himself as a hairless cat, a hairless cat that comes up and rubs himself up against Hannibal’s legs, then he can’t stop himself from giggling. 

Hannibal is like a cat too, but in an entirely different way. The doctor is like one of those big cats, dangerous but charming. Hannibal can be a charming lion cub…or **bear** cub, Lee muses. To hide his amusement, he picks up the decanter to check if the wine has breathed enough.

A generous amount of wine is poured into their respective waiting glasses. Hannibal picks one of them up, holding the stem between his thumb and his forefinger as he swirls the fragrant liquid in it gently, admiring the way light reflected from the surface of the velvet red hue. 

It has a lovely burgundy colour, like blood. 

Swirling the wine in the glass increases the surface area exposure to the air, allowing volatile aroma compounds to escape. Hannibal takes a subtle sniff. There are peppers, berries, currants on the nose, a pleasing combination. He then proceeds to take a small sip, holding it in his mouth, moving it over his tongue, and bathing every taste bud with it. It’s wonderfully silky and sweet and bitter, finishing with fine-grained tannins and lingering ripe red cherry and well-balanced spice flavours.

Lee watches Hannibal’s throat bobbing up and down as he swallows; it’s an oddly sensual sight that shoots a bolt of want straight through Lee’s body. Quickly, the younger man looks away and raises his own glass. He takes a rather large gulp, masking his embarrassing blush.

“Stunning.” Hannibal comments appreciatively. 

Lee nods, trying hard to remain detached from his desire. He gives himself a moment to savour the taste before swallowing. “Clean finish, and then a craving. The mark of a great shiraz.”

“The perfect red.” Hannibal agrees.

Lee raises his glass and gives Hannibal the brightest grin. “For a foiled armed robbery.”

And their glasses clink with a merry sound. 

— 

“ _’WHEN I AM DEAD -‘_ “

Two and a half bottles of wine later, Lee is sitting on the edge of his orange kitchen counter swinging his legs like an overgrown child. He waves his hands in the air. The wine in the glass held between his fingers almost gets spilled all over his light grey cardigan. He laughs hysterically at himself, continues reciting loud and clear to Hannibal as if he’s giving a public speech. 

“ _‘When I am dead, do not clothe me. Wrap me naked in a - Wrap me naked in a sheet. No flowers on my bed and let no one accompany me, neither relatives nor friends. Burn Me.’_. Now that, that is a death I can drink to.”

To stress the point, Lee takes another swig from his almost empty glass.

“Luigi Pirandello.” Hannibal nods. He watches Lee, finding his childlike qualities quite endearing.

“Pirandello got it right.” Lee says.

Three strides and Hannibal is right before Lee, stepping in between his knees. He braces his arms on either side of Lee’s body, entering his personal space but not quite yet, giving him more than enough room to _decide_. 

“You know, Lee. A patient once told me something that I’d describe as quite the opposite. She was a brave woman.” As he speaks to Lee, his lips loosen with a quiver as if about to deliver a kiss. 

“Was?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.”

Perhaps it’s him hallucinating, but Lee swears he can feel the warmth from Hannibal’s hand seeping through the fabric between them. And if he wants anything, he wants Hannibal taking one step further. One more step and they can look at each other literally face to face.

“What-What did she say?” Lee frowns, his voice an almost whisper.

“She said, ‘when I go, I wants a crowd, family and friends. I wants them with me until the very end.’” Hannibal says, his voice impossibly low and husky. It’s sending shivers down Lee’s spine with every word coming out of his mouth. “She didn’t want her death to be-“

“Scary?”  
“Desolate.” 

Hannibal’s gaze stares straight into Lee’s eyes, and Lee flinches minutely. 

“Desolate.” Hannibal repeats. “That's what she feared. A desolate death.” 

Lee wants to laugh it off; he always laughs it off when things get heavy, a defence mechanism of his - but right now, he just can’t do it. He feels tears burning in his eyes, and he swallows them down. 

Based on Hannibal’s observations of the man, Lee is easy going, even tempered, friendly, and agreeable. He is very at peace with his situation and his place in the world, so he's easily approached and more than happy to talk to strangers without any hesitation, but rarely, cleverly never show people his real emotions. 

Friendships that Lee fosters are largely superficial. He intentionally keeps people at arm's length so he can't possibly become a burden on them, or cause them to become emotionally attached to someone so close to dying. 

For the most part Lee has gotten to a point where he's completely self sufficient. He doesn't have any trouble making friends and he enjoys spending time with people, but he effectively needs no one to support him in any capacity. He also expresses intense dislikes to people pitying him or coddling him in regards to his cancer, and would never think of using his status as a way to gain an advantage over anyone or get him any special privileges.

But something has changed in him, Hannibal can now easily sense the man’s fear; he can almost taste it now. Lee acts like he’s all detached, he’s ready to go, but no matter how many times he tries to convince himself that it’s okay, it really isn’t. Deep down, he doesn’t want to go alone, forgotten, fading away all by himself. 

A desolate death. Lee doesn’t want that death, especially not now, not after he’s met Hannibal.

“Can I-“ Lee stutters, he licks his lips, his eyes watering, partly because he’s a bit tipsy, partly because he’s on the verge of crying. “Can I tell you something? I’m stressed out.”

With every smile, Lee dies a little inside, and Hannibal knows it. 

“Can I tell you something? That is obvious.” The doctor’s voice is low and husky. 

His face is impossibly close now, but still too far away for his liking. Lee grimaces as if he’s in physical pain. There is a chance that Hannibal would leave him if he said _it_ out loud. He may lose Hannibal forever - even though his forever won’t last very long. His two hands that are clutching the empty glass on his lap shake a little.

“I’m gay.” He blurts out. “- a true cocksman.” 

A knowing grin slowly makes its way across Hannibal’s thin lips, intriguing Lee so he can’t take his eyes off them. 

That’s cheating.

“That, my dear Lee, is obvious too.” Hannibal chuckles silently and closes the final distance between them, essentially trapping him. His lips hovering over Lee’s, teasingly intimate.

Time seems to have stopped. Lee lowers his eyes; his mind barely registers it when Hannibal plucks the empty glass from his hands. Something that sounds like a sob and a whimper escapes his mouth when Hannibal leans forward to place a tender, chaste kiss on his forehead, then pulls the smaller man into a tight, long hug. One of Hannibal’s large hands comes up to cup the back of Lee’s head protectively. 

Lee has never realised how starved for affection he is until Hannibal hugs him tight, so tight. It’s tighter than any friendly hugs and he finds that he really, really doesn’t want to let go.

—

The sound of raindrops hitting on window panes wake Lee up from a deep sleep, tenderly pulling him out of darkness. Well-rest, unplagued by sickness nor aches, Lee savours the rare but overwhelming bliss. 

Slowly he opens his eyes, his long lashes batting, trying to clear his vision, or simply to make sure that what he is seeing is real.  
Hannibal is sitting with him in bed, a drawing pad perfectly balanced on his lap. The pencil in his hand is making repetitive sketching motions; noises of graphite scratching on paper are soft, soothing even. 

“What are you doing?” Lee asks, his voice coarse and husky, filled with sleepiness.

“Drawing.”

“What are you drawing?” 

Without turning to him, Hannibal asks, “Have I woken you? How are you feeling?”

“Um…Thirsty?”

Hannibal picks up a glass of water he has prepared on a low table nearby, and hands it to Lee. 

Lee sips on it slowly, glad to feel the tightness in his throat momentarily eased. The younger man tries to sit up. He wants to take a better look at Hannibal’s drawing. A stab of sudden, sharp pain in his lower back makes him twitch and yelp in surprise. Fortunately, it’s relatively mild and it’s gone before he can begin panicking.

Alerted, Hannibal puts down his stationary immediately; his attention focuses on Lee and Lee only. “Where is it?” 

Hannibal is keeping his tone perfectly neutral as a medical professional; there is none of that pity that Lee loathes, and he is grateful for that.

“I’m good. I’m good. Just a spasm. It’s gone.” Lee waves it off. 

Hannibal gestures and instructs Lee to turn over. Despite his groan and protest, Lee complies. 

Carefully and slowly, Hannibal pulls up his thick, grey sweater, pressing and feeling for any abnormality on his back. When the doctor’s calloused palm touches an aching spot on his back, Lee gasps. 

Before Hannibal can ask, Lee giggles with a high voice, “No, no, no, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just…your hand is cold.”

“My apologies.” 

Hannibal resumes his examination, his palm adding slight pressure to his touch, slowly beginning a gentle massage along the prominent spine of Lee’s bare back. The doctor’s fingers can’t resist the urge to linger on a patch of discoloured skin when they travel down to Lee’s waist, it’s a jagged scar about six inches that runs across his right torso. 

The touch gives Lee another shiver. He hisses under the touch but he doesn’t have to turn his head around, he can practically feel how intense the doctor’s gaze is as he stares at his surgical scar. 

“Oh, yeah. That was my first. Now it's got friends. A Met-1. Just a little mole I thought was nothing.”

Hannibal has memorised Lee’s medical file perfectly by heart. He has terminal Stage IV metastatic melanoma, diagnosed twelve years ago, and has since undergone various treatments, including eight different clinical trials. His cancer was found via an altered mole on his lower right abdomen and had a large section of skin and tissue removed in that area, leaving a diagonal scar. He currently has nine inoperable metastatic tumours, including four on his lungs, three in his chest cavity, and two on his liver. 

Despite his grim fate ahead, the man manages to keep his sadness and vulnerability hidden under his optimistic mask, his witty mannerism and personality a combination of sarcasm and cynicism. He’s trying his best to be brave.

A remarkable boy.

“Hmm.” Hannibal hums. Lee is glad that the doctor doesn’t dwell on it further. 

While Hannibal is not looking, Lee’s sneaky fingers drag the now abandoned drawing pad on the white bed sheet towards himself. It’s the kind of good quality drawing pad with nice, thick yellowish paper, and on the page opened is a sketch of Lee’s sleeping face.

Lee traces his fingers on the lines, his fingertips stained black with graphite powder. 

“Wow. Is there anything you don't do well?” He exclaims softly and stares at it with admiration, his jaw muscles clenches as he eyes Hannibal mockingly. “Do you have any other hidden talent that I don't know? I’m flattered, by the way. I look um…younger when I’m asleep.”

Lee honestly has never seen a picture of himself sleeping because who would take pictures of themselves asleep anyway? 

The drawing makes him wonder what he’d look like when he dies. 

A sudden vision of himself lying in a casket pops up in his mind. He has read enough and seen enough to know what is waiting for him at the end of the road, and what to expect during the last part of his journey. He has indignity to look forward to; it’ll only get uglier and it won’t end pretty. 

Anyhow, he has long decided to let these thoughts go; they are not something he should waste time and energy to worry about right now. 

“There is an ethereal quality to your presence.” Hannibal agrees.

“ _Ethereal_?” Lee laughs. “…I don’t even know what that word means.” 

The grin on Hannibal’s lips widens, his hands brushing up and down Lee’s back without applying any more pressure on the muscles.

Lee trembles, a good kind of thrill responding to Hannibal’s touch. The warmed up palm is brushing Lee’s torso tenderly now, up and down, up and down, like a trick trying to lure him back to sleep. It’s so soothing and intimate, only concentrating on Hannibal’s touch, like a meditation, only it’s way more sensual. He can feel his mind begins to float.

“Um…Hannibal?” Lee calls to him quietly.

“Yes.”

“Did we…?”

“No.” Hannibal chuckles. He turns Lee sideways so they can face each other comfortably. “You fell asleep while I was holding you.”

Lee groans, “You carried me to bed.” 

“I did.” There is a mischievous glint in Hannibal’s red eyes, a satisfaction upon seeing Lee bury his face in the pillow under his head. 

An image of Hannibal carrying him bridal style to bed pops into Lee’s mind; he can feel the blush creeping up his face, towards the very tip of his ears. If only there was a hole for him to hide in now. 

“Awkward!” Lee screeches softly into his pillow. “This is so embarrassing.“

“What is?”

Lee gestures vaguely at the space between them without looking back up. “Us.”

“Intimacy goes beyond sexual intercourse, Lee; it is not just sex.” Hannibal shrugs.

“Argh. Now you’re making it even more awkward by saying it out loud.” 

Horrified, Lee only giggles and frowns and sighs at once. Happy, panicked, embarrassed, depressed, regretful hopeful, worried…He doesn’t know how he can have such mixed feelings all at once.   
He adds quietly,“It’s always ‘just sex’ for me. I prefer sex without emotional attachment. I - Did you know I invited you here to have sex with me?”

“It has crossed my mind,” Hannibal admits, “but we can take things slow.”

Lee bites his lips but it’s too late to stop himself from saying, “I don’t have time to take things slow.”

“In that case.” Hannibal inches towards him, his hand comes up to Lee’s neck, his fingers firmly holding the back of his neck, gently massaging the muscle as he pulls Lee down. He leans forward, placing tender kisses on Lee’s temple, on his forehead, on his cheek, on the tip of his nose, and finally, his lips.

Lee is very aware of how dry and chapped his lips are when he feels Hannibal’s heated breath against his mouth, giving him a feather light kiss that feels outrageously good and sweet and tender and now Lee wants more. He presses himself up, demanding Hannibal to deepen the kiss. 

Feeling Lee’s hot, wet tongue licking and poking his lips, a smirk appears on Hannibal’s face. “So eager.”

“Dyin' here.” Lee laughs.

The older man inches closer to Lee, their body pressing tight against each other. Everywhere Hannibal touches, every inch of skin his fingers linger upon, Lee feels a spark of warmth and calm that eventually turns him into a puddle of want, desperately craving more. Quite frankly, he is satisfied just to hold Hannibal’s body close, or being held tightly in his arms.

Touch starved, it has to be. He has been severely touch starved. That’s the only logical explanation for what he is feeling right now. 

It’s been a long time since he’s actually cuddled someone, or been cuddled in bed. Cuddling is not an option when having sex with strangers in the backs of bars. 

After endless exploration and experimenting on their favourite positions, they agree to settle on spooning each other, awkwardly with him being the big spoon and Hannibal being the small spoon. 

An idea flashes in Lee’s mind, and his hands begin untucking the end of Hannibal’s shirt.

“What are you doing?” Hannibal’s voice is neutral, not complaining, just curious.

“I, um, I just want to confirm something.” Lee answers vaguely. 

When his hands finally manages to slip under the well-tailored shirt, conveniently unbuttoning it at the same time, they immediately feel their way up to Hannibal’s chest.

“Oh.” Lee feels his face heat up. 

The thick matted hair on Hannibal’s chest meets his outstretched fingertips as he run his hands over it. It feels good, both coarse and soft at the same time. “I have news for you, Hannibal. You're actually my type. 100%.”

Hannibal turns around, waiting patiently for him to elaborate with a playful smirk, his pale eyebrows raised with amusement. 

“Uh- I’m into Bears. I like my men big and hairy.” Lee whispers. “Just like you.”

Obviously startled by the compliment, Hannibal tenses under Lee’s touch, yet allowing a composed chuckle to escape him. 

“Is that so?” Hannibal lowers his chin, narrows his eyes into slits and gives Lee a tight, predatory grin.

Lee swallows hard. He is mumbling now, and his eyelids feel like they have been weighted down. “Mmm, fortunately for me, there's a Bear bar just down the street from here…Oh, you will be very popular there. Maybe you should grow a beard…”

His voice trails off while he is momentarily distracted, his hands working down Hannibal’s stomach, delighted to hear a silent gasp escaping his lips. The man hisses a breath through his teeth and arches his back ever so slightly in response to Lee smoothing his palm over his soft middle, nails scraping lightly on the sensitive skin. He pulls Lee closer against his chest, wrapping him in his arms. 

A soft, contented sigh escapes Lee as he subtly rubs his face on the hairy chest like a (hairless) cat. It's all warm and fuzzy, almost surreal. 

They lie there in bed, snuggling and kissing each other, their hands touching and exploring. Cuddling in bed is such a simple pleasure yet a luxury for Lee. He has long denied himself the pleasure. 

Cuddling decreases stress, but builds intimacy, and increases bonding, which is why it’s something Lee always actively tries to avoid, but right now he just couldn't care less. 

Lee is euphoric, overwhelmed by emotions and feelings, but he is not exactly excited, sexually. No matter what they do, he just cannot he cannot get aroused. His loss of sex drive hits at the most inappropriate time. He sighs miserably. 

“…I’m sorry, I…” 

“Shhh.” Hannibal just shushes him; his fingers begin stroking the back of his neck as if Lee is an actual cat. 

The situation is frustrating and embarrassing, but Lee is fully content with just hugging, and being hugged by his _Hanni-Bear_. 

He feels the pull of sleep tugging behind his eyelids, but he forces himself to stay awake, lingering in a trance like bliss. 

He is not sure how long has passed when the doctor’s low, husky voice asks in his ear, “Lee? Are you hungry?”

With his face buried against the older man’s warm and broad chest, feeling too warm and cozy and lazy to move an inch, Lee yawns and asks teasingly like a joke, “Are you going to make me food?” 

One of Hannibal’s hands reaches out to cup Lee’s face, his thumb involuntarily brushing the shell of the ear - Lee has a pair of rather odd but pleasantly shaped ears. 

“Already have.” Hannibal announces proudly, and gestures at the fridge. Lee glares at him in surprise, his eyebrows raises high. 

“You’ve been out for a while. I have just the right ingredients at hand.”

So the doctor manages to cook him dinner, and finishes a sketch drawing of him while he’s asleep. He has super human time management skills, Lee is sure of that.

“No way!” Lee beams at Hannibal and sniffs the air, indeed managing to catch a hint of enticing aroma of food in the air that he hasn’t noticed before. 

He tries to act enthusiastic even though he doesn’t really have an appetite. Today is one of those days again, not the worst but worse-than-normal kind of day. There is random throbbing all over the muscles in his body that he would rather not show or let Hannibal know. The pain is bearable, for now; he is used to its presence. 

With reluctance, Lee lets go of Hannibal. He watches the man working efficiently in his tiny kitchen, enthusiastic in taking care of his patient, his friend. 

It’s so surreal; all of these feels more like a fevered dream, a fairy tale. Perhaps this is just Lee’s fantasy after all. Everything is in his head, merely a hallucination induced by drugs while the real him is lying in cold bed of a hospital somewhere else, his body ready to die any second now…

But the constant pain in his right lung is too real to be imaginary. He’d probably will away the pain if this was all merely a dream.

—

Warming the food up briefly on the stove, Hannibal brings the hot bowl to a low table near Lee’s side of the bed. Perhaps Hannibal has noticed his discomfort and reluctance to stand up, perhaps he hasn’t; it doesn’t matter. 

“You made me chicken soup!” Lee takes a sniff at the steaming soup. 

Rich and golden in colour, it smells warm and delicious, and even though he doesn’t feel like eating much, the aroma calms his nerves instantly, triggering in him a sudden appetite. 

“Yes.” Hannibal regards Lee with an amused tilt of head. “Chicken with ginger broth. Whole chicken, daikon, leeks, mushrooms and spinach, with a pinch of cilantro and scallions. The gentle method I’ve used to steam the chicken is Chinese in origin, ending up with perfectly cooked chicken, and a rich flavourful gingery broth that is great to sip on if you feel nauseated.”

_Ah, so he has noticed._  Lee gives Hannibal a polite and grateful nod. 

“I can’t believe you manage to cook this up in my kitchen.”

“I must admit, your lack of suitable pots has been quite a challenge.”

Lee giggles and takes a sip. The soup is clear, but intensely flavoured, wonderfully sustaining.

Flopping down on the mattress beside Lee with a bowl for himself, Hannibal adds as he blows on a spoon of hot soup, “You don't have to finish it, if you don't want to.”

It’s like Hannibal can read his mind. Lee blinks, feeling a mix of emotions in his chest that make him want to tear up. 

They eats in peaceful silence. Miraculously, Lee manages to finish the entire, although small, bowl of broth. Hannibal efficiently put away the dishes, despite Lee’s protest that it’s time for him to get up and do the cleaning himself.

“I'm not an invalid, you know.” Lee says jokingly. 

He’s not used to being taken care of. He doesn’t need to be taken care of. He’d feel insulted if it was not Hannibal Lecter that is offering the help. He likes the doctor too much to think straight. 

“Of course you’re not, but if you’d indulge me, I intend to take care of you just a little bit.” Hannibal stated in a very professional and formal tone that makes Lee wants to giggle. “Because I want to.”

Lee’s body feels much better now that he’s warmed up nicely from within.

Good food and Hannibal Lecter. There is a mysterious connection between the two elements right from the beginning of their friendship, and Lee still wonders why. 

Life works in mysterious ways.


	5. Chapter 5

Bright sun shining through the window fills Lee’s compact studio apartment with a glow that defies yesterday’s weather forecast. It’s late in the afternoon; The sun feels warm on Lee’s pale skin; And it feels nice. Very nice. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress as if he’s meditating, Lee takes a sip from his early evening drink and narrows his eyes in bliss, enjoying the pleasant moment that he knows won’t last very long. 

Swirling in Lee’s wineglass is not his usual choice of red, nor white, but something pink; A róse; A sweet gift, from Hannibal Lecter.

A soft ray of sunlight from above hit the wall of the wineglass with the perfect angle just so a tiny rainbow tinted in the softest shade of rosy pink is cast right on Lee’s arm. 

“Oh. Hello.” Lee frowns and grins, eyeing the little spectrum of colour lights with delight; He tilts and moves his glass around; His finger poking at the refracted light with childish glee. 

It’s hard to imagine one can feel happiness for such simple, beautiful thing; Simple, beautiful, yet temporary. It only takes the slightest change in the angle at where the light hits the glass for the faint rainbow on Lee’s arm to vanish, disappearing into thin light as if it was never there. 

A fragile existence comes and goes - Not unlike his own. 

Lee shakes his head and lowers his gaze on his arm. Under the invisible yet visible beams of light, Lee notices that the hair on his arm looks way lighter than they actually are; His pale skin seems impossibly translucent as if it’s cast from life like resin, with the faint blue veins crawling underneath clearly visible. 

_“There is an ethereal quality to your presence.”_

Lee remembers Hannibal once told him that. Is this what being ‘ethereal’ looks like? “An extremely delicate and light in a way that seems not to be of this world.” In other words… _Not of this world_. 

Perhaps this only happens to the dying ones when time of their departure from this world draws near. Perhaps one day, upon the cease of existence he will become translucent, transparent, then eventually disintegrate into nothingness, disappearing entirely into thin air. Nobody has to witness his death; Nobody needs to deal with the body he’s left behind; Nobody is going to notice his absence. 

What a perfect, peaceful way to go. 

Wait. No. Hannibal Lecter is definitely going to notice. 

“Hannibal.” Lee whispers Hannibal’s name as if he is testing the way it sounds from his mouth. 

One time out of boredom during a particularly awful treatment session, Lee distracted himself from the discomfort by letting his imagination go wherever it took him, and his mind took him to an imaginary place where he had a dreamy, oddly domestic life in some other world with an older, more mature Hannibal Lecter; It was a dream that Lee knew would never happen because by that age, he would have had long been dead; But then in the dream, everything felt so right; They even had a cat together; And it was pathetically the best daydream Lee has ever had. 

Huffing out a sigh, Lee contemplates if meeting Hannibal Lecter is a good, or a bad thing for him after all. What Lee longs for with Hannibal Lecter is unlike any other crushes in his past. He wants a _future_ with him, a future that realistically he would never have. Among all of the relationships that Lee risked his heart with, he has never, ever, desired a long and happy life together with anybody as much as Hannibal Lecter; Against all his better judgements, he has fallen in love with the man. 

_Life gets complicated when you want to own things_. Looking at things and then walk away with them inside his heart; Travel light without any luggage; That’s what Lee has been doing all along. He used to believe that a peaceful death is all he would want, all he is ever gonna need. But now, he isn’t so sure. This longing Lee has for Hannibal is alarming; A warning, that perhaps it’s time for Lee to distant himself from Hannibal before it’s too late for both of them to let go. 

“Haaannibaaal Lecterrr.” He savours the name on his tongue like an exquisite aftertaste of the good wine. “What should I do with you?”

Lee stares at the last bit of pink wine in the glass. He is not an avid fan of sweet wines, but this wine…This particular wine has a peculiar aftertaste that is oddly addictive. — Or perhaps what’s so special about this wine is just that it was a gift from Hannibal. 

“How pathetic.” Lee hisses a laugh, downing the last of the sweet wine in one gulp. 

Good things are always beautiful, but fragile. If cancer has taught Lee anything, it's the importance of appreciating little things in life; To have a positive attitude to whatever comes his way. No looking back at the past; No looking forward for a miracle to happen; Simply living, living in the present moment. Nothing is permanent anyway, so he might as well enjoy the moment while it lasts. He might enjoy the time he has with Hannibal Lecter while it lasts.

Putting away the glass, Lee put his head back and leans against the blank wall behind his bed. He lowers his eyes and relaxes his body as his mind begins to wander. Perhaps just for one more time, he’d let himself fantasise about a life where he could grow old with Hannibal, together.   

…

Alcohol used to help Lee relax, make him sleep better; But his drinking habit seems to be disrupting his sleeping pattern instead lately. The man keeps falling asleep early, then waking at insane hours before dawn. Strange. Wine has never had such effect on his body before. Lee knows he can’t make himself go back to sleep anyway. He might as well go for an early run. 

Cracking open a window to feel for the temperature, cool breeze from the outside begins to circulate in the relatively warm interior. The chill sends a shiver through Lee’s body, and he quickly closes it again. It’s so cold outside; He better gears up with something wind-resistant; After all these years, Lee has gotten used to keeping his hair curtly short; First thing he’d need is his good old beanie; The beanie that always keeps his head warm during winter days for 11 years. 

“Now where is it?” 

Good thing about having a small living space is that when things get lost, it’s fairly easy for Lee to find them. After flipping through every single spot possible in his sparsely furnished studio apartment, Lee has no choice but to declare that the piece of clothing has disappeared.

Sometimes things disappear from life so slowly, or quickly, that one barely misses them when they are gone. But sometimes, it is not the case. Lee feels uncharacteristically sad about his lost friend. The beanie has been with him for so many years; He’s been wearing a year into his first chemotherapy, and naturally, he has grown quite attached to its presence even though it is already too old and ratty to be worn. 

Realising how attached he is to a mere piece of accessory, Lee feels lost. He is very proud of his determination to remain detached from _things_ in life. Then a stupid beanie betrays everything that he believes in. It reminds Lee strangely of Hannibal, and his feelings for him. He has been frequently thinking about the man lately, and he wonders why. In a sense, he has grown as uncomfortably attached to Hannibal as beanie, at the most inappropriate time in life. Truth is, Lee is definitely not ready to go, not now that he has Hannibal. This attachment is giving Lee a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. The sensation reminds him of something akin to regret.

—

Most psychiatrists prefer an office that is light and bright, unlike Dr. Lecter, who seems to favour the opposite. Hannibal’s office is dark, but comfortable, softly illuminated by dimmed lights and sun filtered through white window blinds that render the room oddly cozy. 

The setting sun casts a blood red glow upon everything in the room, including Lee’s silhouette that is now sitting in an armchair opposite Hannibal’s. 

Lee is Hannibal’s last patient today; It’s already around closing time at the clinic, but they are not rushing their conversation. Hannibal looks at Lee with a calm but intense gaze. Lee seems distracted today; A rare deep frown marring his face since he enters the consultation room; His fingers keep picking on a loose thread on the armrest; And he’s been actively avoiding eye contact with Hannibal. Hannibal wonders what is plaguing his friend’s mind.

Lee asks absently. “Hannibal, do you have any regrets?“ 

Hannibal considers the question, then gives a neutral shrug. “With every choice lies the possibility of regret. However, if I choose to do, or not to do something, it's usually for a good reason.” A beat, he asks in return, “Do you?”

There are plenty of regrets in Lee’s life that he thought he has let them go, but in truth he hasn’t. If he was discussing the matter with any other psychiatrist, Lee would just lie and try to joke away the awkwardness; But not now, not with Hannibal. Hannibal is the only person who can make Lee feel safe enough not to lie to. He can lie to the world, he can lie to himself, but he cannot lie to his soulmate. 

“Contrary to popular belief, I, um, I’m riddled with regrets.” So Lee chooses the honest answer, he gives a sad smile. “What if-“ Lee’s eyes wander, then glance up, looking straight into Hannibal’s, into his soul. “What if there’s a button that you can press to _undo_ whatever you regret doing most in your life; would you press it?” 

“A chance not to let our past define our future?” Hannibal tilts his head, considering the question; His eyes narrowed, but unblinking. This is not his session but Lee’s after all, so he turns the question around and prompts, “Would you?” 

Lee thinks of the day he met Hannibal; he thinks of the moment he decided to step out from the sidewalk to prank the man out of glee; An innocent gesture that leads to a mess of emotions and confusing complications like the Butterfly Effect. Lee’s fate has been altered the second he stepped out in front of Hannibal’s car. Lee’s eyes water, his mind wonders what would happen if he had never met Hannibal…

The real question here is: _Does he regret meeting Hannibal Lecter? If there is a button that he can press to forget meeting him, would he press it?_

After a long pause, Lee answers his own question with an honest, and quiet: “No”. 

No, even if he could choose again, he’d choose a life with Hannibal Lecter; He’d prefer a life with Hannibal than one without even though this fate is going to give him more pain and, very likely, _regret_ , when his time comes. 

One side of Hannibal’s mouth lifts into a pleased half grin. “A life without regret would be no life at all, Lee. Remember that.” 

…

At the end of Lee’s session, Hannibal pours him a cup of hot tea. 

Lee accepts the china teacup gratefully. The teacup is delicate, it feels expensive in his hands, likely one that Hannibal brings to the office from his home, reserved exclusively for someone special; Reserved exclusively for Lee.

Hannibal’s gaze lowers to where their fingers touch as he hands Lee the cup; His mind naturally wonders about teacups and time and the rules of disorder. And Mischa. 

“You know, Lee? It too intrigues me, the idea of _undoing_. A desire to do-over.” Simply put, to get a second chance in life. He licks his lips, “I’m curious about linear time and entropy. Occasionally I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor. On purpose.” 

Lee raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“I’m not satisfied when it doesn't gather itself up again.” 

“If your teacup could come back together, _doctor_ , my cancer could be cured too,” Lee jokes, pauses to blow on the tea, then continues, “which we both know is impossible, isn’t it? I told you before, there is no miracle, Hannibal. Unlike your teacup, I did not ‘will’ cancer into my life. If you wanted a teacup whole and unbroken, perhaps you shouldn’t choose to break it in the first place.”

Hannibal looks away, as if he is contemplating his thoughts. 

Lee sniffs the tea curiously before taking a small sip. The bright emerald green herbal infusion has an earthy aroma and a mellow floral sweet taste, satisfyingly calming, soothing.

“This tea is nice.” Lee sighs happily. 

The praise puts a smile on Hannibal’s face while he pours himself too a cup. He explains. “I made the blend myself. The tea contains herbs that are known to decrease muscle tension and calm nerves.”

Cancer chemotherapy drugs reduce the sense of taste. Lee’s palate is not as refined as Hannibal, but he can still recognise some of the ingredients in the tea. 

“I taste peppermint, ginger, chamomile…What else is in the tea?”

“I'll only answer yes or no.” Hannibal grins.

Lee rolls his eyes.

Finishing their tea, Hannibal and Lee stands and prepares to leave the clinic. Together.

The doctor has conveniently scheduled Lee’s appointment last for the day because they are going to have a dinner date. Hannibal is going to cook for Lee, again. If Lee lets him, Hannibal would probably volunteer to cook for him every night. 

Lee is positively giddy at the prospect of them (finally) fucking their brains out tonight; A small part in him, oddly, is excited solely for the awesome food Hannibal is going to prepare for him. 

Allowing himself to form attachment is unsettling for Lee, but then he really loves being taken care of by Hannibal. His life is full of contradictions after Hannibal, and he has no clue how to deal with his issues appropriately. 

After their therapy session, Lee is in a considerably better mood. He keeps humming an unknown, broken tune while buttoning up his jacket. It’s a well-worn jacket, the only decent one that Lee owns in his wardrobe. Hannibal wouldn’t consider Lee rude even if he didn’t bring a jacket to dinner, but somehow Lee wants to wear it, he wants to wear it for Hannibal. 

A sudden gust of wind begins blowing outside. Listening to that sound alone gives Lee chills. 

“Where does this wind come from?” Lee grumbles. 

The temperature has dropped considerably in the past few days. Weather report says Minneapolis is going to have the season's first snow in the coming weekend. 

Hannibal walks up from behind him, and places a kiss on the pale skin of his exposed neck. 

Lee jumps at the soft touch, then giggles.

“Even though it's been getting cold, you didn't bring a scarf.” Hannibal scolds lightly. 

“It was warmer this morning!” Lee protests.

Then Hannibal slips something soft onto his head. 

“I-um-OH!” Lee blinks once, twice. “OH.”

It’s his lost beanie. “I thought I’ve lost it.”

“You did. I found it over there.” Hannibal points at the sofa and chuckles, then he instructs. “Turn around for me.” 

_Lost and found._ Obedient like a little boy, Lee complies, his earlobes blushing a darker shade of pink as he turns to see the small grin hanging on the doctor’s face; Hannibal pulls the beanie down to tug Lee’s adorable ears under, nice and snug. 

A thick but soft wool scarf follows, wrapped around Lee’s neck with a double loop. Sometimes Lee feels like Hannibal enjoys taking care of him a little too much. He traces the dark herringbone pattern on the beige fabric. The fabric smells expensive, like the doctor’s cologne with his natural scent mixed in. It smells like Hannibal. 

Satisfied with how cozy Lee looks now - And even more so how flustered Lee is - Hannibal can’t help it but leans in to peck a kiss on the tip of his adorable nose. 

Lee’s eyelashes bat against his pink-tinged cheeks, lower lip drawn in between his teeth. He lunges forward, wrapping his hand around the nape of Hannibal’s neck, pulling his face down into a crushing kiss. 

The kiss is warm and soft but rough at the same time and Lee reluctantly pulls away as he hears nurses walking down the corridor outside the door. 

“Shall we go?” Hannibal whispers with a grin against Lee’s lips. “Let’s go home.”

Lee nods dumbly. Merely the word ‘home’ makes Lee feel more alive inside. It’s been a very long time since he has a _home_ to go to.

“What's for dinner?” Lee asks as Hannibal turns off the light.

“Never ask. Spoils the surprise,”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr too :D [@vulcanplomeeksoup](http://vulcanplomeeksoup.tumblr.com) Come chat with me about Hannibal !


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